


Chicory

by orphan_account



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Blood, Canon-Typical Violence, Case Fic, Death, Developing Relationship, Graphic Description of Corpses, Hannibal (TV) Season/Series 01, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Phone Calls & Telephones, Pining
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-20
Updated: 2019-12-11
Packaged: 2021-02-13 14:11:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,107
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21495583
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: With Hannibal across the country and his vacation time clocked, Will intended to have a quiet week. No cases, no disturbances, and no reason for night sweats.As always, Jack Crawford has other plans.
Relationships: Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Comments: 22
Kudos: 48





	1. INTRO

**Author's Note:**

> Hi y'all! This is my first Hannibal fic, but I've been chewing the idea for a while. It isn't all written yet, but I have seven chapters outlined, so I'm hoping that keeps everything running smoothly. I've got a fun little contained case-fic story planned, and hope everyone enjoys reading it as much as I'm enjoying writing it. 
> 
> Keep an eye on the tags and character listing for updates, and let me know what you think as we go along. Looking forward to hearing from y'all!

Will wasn't sleeping when Jack called, but he let the phone ring out anyway. It was late; extremely so, and he _should've_ been asleep. Besides, he was technically on vacation. He'd asked for the week off, though had agreed to stay on call. Only as a last resort, he’d stipulated before leaving. Only if Jack had exhausted all other options; if it was an emergency.

He was almost certain whatever this was didn't qualify. 

He couldn’t prove it, of course. He didn’t have a clue what was going on with Jack and the rest of the team. He’d tried to keep up by prodding Alana over lunches, but she’d been annoyingly tight lipped. She gave snippets of gossip or retold jokes the CSI team had been making that day; she passed messages from Beverly or-- if he brought her up-- discussed Freddie. Otherwise, though, she kept it casual. If he started asking about casework, Dr Bloom changed the subject.

_You’re on vacation, remember?_

He tried arguing, tried saying that only meant he wasn’t working. She didn’t have to keep him in the dark. But she did, citing the stress being out of action could cause.

_There’s no point worrying about what you can’t fix._

And he agreed to a point, or enough of one to let Jack ring out. 

Whatever was going on, it was 3:00 AM and he was off duty.

His phone made a bright spot on the pillow. It stung his eyes, but he stared at it anyway. He needed to adjust, and it’d be easier here than in the kitchen, which he’d be going to before calling back. He needed coffee before talking to his boss, especially after a few days of peace. Wolf Trap was quiet, and even his loudest dog was no match for Jack when the man got going. 

Trying not to squint, Will watched the graphic of a handset pulse on the screen. It bounced a few times before disappearing, replaced by an envelope. A message, but not a long one. Barely ten seconds had passed. It’d just be a curt hiss. Will could already hear Jack’s agitation. Or no-- urgency was more accurate. Jack was in a hurry more often than he was agitated. 

As he blinked at the screen going dim, Will considered ignoring the call altogether. Only briefly, though. It wasn’t really an option. Jack knew his sleeping patterns and probably suspected that he’d been screened. If Will put it off, the messages would only get more surly and his screen would be covered in letters. No point in that. He couldn’t avoid the man forever, and if he tried, it’d put Jack in a bad mood.

Abandoning the fantasy, Will kicked off the covers and propped up in bed. He pawed his eyes before reaching across the pillow to dial up his phone’s volume and play the message aloud. 

_I know you’re awake_, the recording said. Jack’s voice was grainy, and beneath it rolled the familiar sounds of traffic. Not heavy, but consistent. _Call me back. I know you’re off duty, but trust me: it’s an emergency_.

It closed without a sign-off and Will fumbled to pause in the middle of another, older message: one from Dr Lecter, received a week ago, telling him that he’d arrived in Washington. Hannibal had been invited to speak at a medical conference in Seattle, and would be gone for the next three weeks. Which meant no impromptu meals or swinging by his office after a lecture, though he’d been given permission to call for sessions as needed.

_It isn’t my preferred method_, Hannibal said the night before his flight. He’d invited Will over for a send-off dinner, and brought the idea up over it. While they picked at their plates of pickled tripe and honeycomb and swirled their raspberry beer, Hannibal found four different ways to assure Will it was fine if he needed his therapeutic services during the conference.

_I lived without them for years, Dr Lecter. A couple weeks won’t kill me._

Of course it wouldn’t, Hannibal agreed. Still, wouldn’t Will just take his number?

He hadn’t used it yet; there hadn’t been any reason to. His vacation had been going smoothly. Apart from meals with Alana, he hadn’t seen anyone at all. No stressers, no dreams, no problem. This, though, watching his phone go live in the night and hearing Jack’s grizzly voice-- it set his teeth on edge. Which was premature, and also stupid. He didn’t even know what the man was calling about.

Not wanting to put it off any longer than necessary, Will dragged himself out of bed. His toes curled, protecting themselves from the coldness of the floor, and he padded down the hall to his kitchen. He slowed when he passed the living room to peek in on his dogs; all were piled and snoring in a ring around the heater. Their chests rose and fell slowly against the cherry glow of exposed coiling. Peaceful. He wished he could fall down into the knot of them.

Hurrying on into the kitchen, he turned on the stove light. It was dim, but enough to make coffee by. He filled the filter, set the drip, and once the water started bubbling, turned his attention to his phone again. He checked to make sure Jack hadn’t called back and he hadn’t, which was promising. It meant he was making good time. At this rate, he might still catch the man in a good mood. Only if he were lucky though, and this wasn’t a real emergency.

It only rang once before Jack picked up, confirming Will’s suspicion that he’d been hovering over his phone.

“I don’t like being screened,” the man said in lieu of greeting.

“I don’t like being called at three in the morning.”

The comeback wasn’t as good as Will hoped it would be. His voice was groggy. He sounded half dead. Still, it did the trick.

“Fair enough, but like I said: emergency.”

Will hummed and propped his elbows on the counter, bringing his face close to the little coffee pot. Steam pillowed out, warming the tip of his nose.

“What kind of emergency?”

Through the line he heard the other man shift. He sounded trapped, like he was sitting in his car. If Will concentrated, he could hear the faint sounds of traffic still. He wondered if Jack had pulled over to wait for him.

“The kind that involves a new lead on an otherwise stalled case.” He shifted again, squeaking on leather. “Remember those bodies from a few months back--”

Will couldn’t resist interrupting. “You’ll have to be more specific.”

Jack didn’t appreciate it. “If you let me finish, I will be.” He paused, allowing Will a moment to mouth off again. When he didn’t take it, Jack pressed on. “The ones in midtown, each found two weeks apart.”

Ah, Will thought. He did remember those, and that he’d thought at the time how odd it all was. Odd timing, odd season-- Late summer; heat-sped rotting--, and odd that the killer had chosen to dump in _midtown_. Boston was a busy place even after dark, and midtown hosted dozens of high traffic venues. Its museums, theatres, libraries, and restaurants drew hundreds. Disposing of a body between them all would present a challenge.

That challenge, however, was apparently one the killer was up to. Jack’s team hadn’t been phoned in on account of one body. They were brought in after nearly three months of them had been scraped up like litter from the gutters, alleys, and underwalks. Six in total had been found, and all but the last two had been claimed by surviving relatives. There were notes, though: videos, photographs, audio recordings, transcripts, and autopsy reports. All of them, along with the remaining bodies, were surrendered to Crawford. 

The coffee pot screamed, shattering the silence of the kitchen, and he jumped. Down the hall, his dogs stirred in their sleep. A few whined, scraping their paws across the floor reflexively, but seconds later settled back into their dreams.

“You found another one?” he asked, shoulders unpinching in turn.

Straightening up, he plucked a mug from the cabinet and filled it near to sloshing with fresh brew. He didn’t leave any room for cream. He only took that when Hannibal was pouring. Between the two of them, Dr Lecter cared the most about flavor profiles. For Will Graham, a cup of coffee was about its potential bite. Deadening that was a waste, both of time and effort.

“We did.”

“Recently, I assume.”

Crawford sighed, blowing out the line. “Two hours ago. I thought about calling then, but--”

A few beats of silence. Will used them to take a steaming sip, and then, when Jack still hadn’t pressed on:

“But you wanted to be sure.”

“I did.” There came a muffled, background click, as if Jack were unfastening his seatbelt. “If it wasn’t what I thought, I intended to let your night go uninterrupted.”

“But you are sure? Now, I mean.”

“Uncomfortably,” Jack confirmed. “Fits the profile perfectly, and before you say it--”

“Say what?”

Will took another sip, slurping a little.

“The gritty details,” Jack said, “The ones we keep out of the press? All were present. If it’s a copycat, they were already working together.”

Or had leaked information, Will didn’t say. The confidentiality of their cases had been compromised before. There were very few places enterprising tabloid journalists couldn’t weasel in. That said, Jack had recently been exceptionally careful. Freddie’s constant nosing had become more than inconvenient. 

“So you’re sure,” Will allowed. “It’s three in the morning. What do you want me to do?”

“Nothing immediately.”

Will grunted. “Non-immediately, then.”

“I’d like you to put your vacation on hold. Please,” Crawford added. “You can refuse, of course.”

Will doubted that very much.

He took a deep pull of coffee, ignoring the scald. “_Hold_ implies that I can resume it later. You mean that, Jack?”

“Cross my heart.” Will imagined him making the motion against his coat breast. “In as little as two days, depending.”

“On?”

“How much information we can lift. This is the first crime scene we’ve had control of from the jump.”

That was true. The others had either been gone for weeks or tampered with by the time the FBI was given over control. There might be a dozen new leads to pick up, or none at all. 

“I had lunch plans tomorrow,” he said as a last ditch.

“Already cancelled. Dr Bloom is planning on calling you around eight.”

Of course she was. In lieu of himself, Jack must’ve called her straight to the scene.

“Did you tell her you were calling first?”

“She asked. I declined to answer.” Will could almost hear the other man’s smile stretch. “I’m sure she took that to mean that I intended to.”

“That’s what matters. I’d rather her be upset with you than me.”

And she would be, because Alana was thrilled that he was on vacation. He’d only been toying with the idea of it before; it was her insistence that pushed him into formally requesting it. It wasn’t healthy to go more than six months without breaking, she said, and when had his last vacation been? He couldn’t tell her.

“She’ll get over it,” Jack muttered. “She knows how valuable you are, and like I said: you can resume it the minute we’re done.”

_Whenever that was_, he thought derisively, taking another punishing gulp of coffee.

And provided that another _emergency_ didn’t immediately come up.


	2. The Dry Girl

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CONTENT WARNING: graphic descriptions of a corpse and mentions of (it doesn't happen) sexual assault. Nothing too wild, but just a heads up for those that need it.

The FBI Academy was a labyrinth of smells. If he needed to, Will could map it by them: the crisp, woody classrooms, powder burn shooting ranges, and antiseptic laboratories had all been singed into his memory.

It was by smell, mostly, that he navigated the next morning. He was exhausted, not having slept after Jack's call. Drifting off had been proving difficult before, but afterwards, it was impossible. The anticipation of putting his mind to work set his heart tripping, and the coffee, admittedly, didn't help. Knowing he'd only have to be up a couple of hours later anyway, he couldn’t justify going back to bed.

It seemed like a good idea at the time. Staying awake gave him until five to nurse his coffee, lounge by the heater, and thumb through notes he hadn't touched since September. By mid that month, it became clear that the killer had gone underground. The last body that surfaced was the one turned over in August. The killer broke his pattern, and if he was working elsewhere, they hadn't caught wind of it. With the trail cold, Will’s notes hadn’t been getting much attention, but the promise of new leads made it worth brushing up. He passed the hours before his shower pouring over xeroxed photos, notes, and autopsy reports.

In hindsight, it would’ve been smarter to sleep.

The harsh light of the lab, when he finally shuffled into it, ratcheted up the headache he’d been nursing. Will winced, already regretting having given into Jack. At home, he could've at least slept it off. Here there were as many aggravators as floor tiles; even footsteps knocked like rocks against his teeth. Dehydration, too much coffee, shitty sleep: in short, his own fault. Still, it would've been nice if nothing else made it worse.

"Nobody panic," Jimmy called as Will slipped in. His voice echoed, and Will winced again. "Cavalry's here. And early, too "

"By a few days," Brian added, peeking up from the autopsy table. He, Jimmy, and Beverly were gathered around a body there. "Or were we having so much fun, we lost track of time?"

"You haven't," Will muttered. "Jack called. I cut it short."

"You've got to be kidding. He said he wouldn't."

It was Beverly speaking, but she didn’t turn from the table. Her back was still to the door Will stood in, stubbornly ignoring him as though denial of the fact would send him home.

Though she wouldn't see it, Will shrugged. "Changed his mind, I guess."

She tapped one gloved finger on the table. Even through latex, the round of her nail bit.

"And you caved? Just like that? Honestly, Will, you shouldn't let him--"

Not wanting to hear the rest of her lecture, he cut in.

"You can decide which one of us you're more irritated with later." He plucked a pair of glasses from his breast pocket before crossing the room. "I'm here now, so let's get started. Want to tell me where we're at?" 

He slotted into the empty space at the table beside her and pushed the glasses up the bridge of his nose. He peeked left to judge her reaction, and it wasn't ideal. Her brow was pinched and both gloves hands were on the table, her fingers tapping an aggravated rhythm. Will braced, certain that she was going to snip. Thankfully, however, Jimmy stepped in.

"Give the man a break, Bev. He was probably bored stiff in-- where is it you live? Beaver Hat?"

Will snorted. Jimmy _knew_ where he lived.

"Wolf Trap."

The man quirked a brow, looking unimpressed. "Sounds duller than kiddy scissors. Can't blame you for leaving, especially now that we've got a fresh one."

His attention cut to the body on the table. Will's followed it, finally taking the victim in. It was a young woman: dark skinned and heart-faced with springy curls. She was athletically built, had trimmed, painted fingernails, and was surprisingly unmarred. With the exception of a few strategic injuries, she was unscathed. The killer hadn’t maimed or dismembered her.

"Do we know who she is?" Will asked.

“Kamala Davies, according to two separate identification cards. We’re still waiting for a positive from next of kin. Her parents are out of town.”

“Way out,” Brian added. “Currently residing in St. Petersburg.”

“Florida?”

Both men nodded. 

Well, Will thought, that wasn’t so bad. If they caught a flight right after the call, they’d be in Quantico in a couple of hours. It wouldn’t slow the investigation down too much. Especially not since the girl was so undamaged. If not for her deathly pallor and stillness, she could’ve been sleeping. It wouldn’t take more than a cursory glance for her parents to identify her.

“The ID cards,” Will muttered, not looking up. “Did one of them happen to be a student’s?”

“Yea. MIT.” Beverly’s voice this time. Her annoyance apparently had a short half-life. “We’re still waiting on her parents, so it’s not official, but since we’re pretty sure, Jack sent a couple agents there this morning.”

“What are you hoping they’ll find?”

Her lab coat crinkled as she shrugged. “Friends, roommates, maybe a favorite professor. Someone who would’ve noticed if something was off, and if she disappeared with someone suspicious.”

“Solid timeline would be helpful, too,” Jimmy said, reaching for the young woman’s hand. His glove closed over it and he squeezed, testing the texture and give. “Estimating from topical evidence? Poor girl had been dead for a few days prior to dumping.” 

Will wouldn’t have guessed. There were no early signs of decomp, but on closer inspection, her toes and fingers looked almost frostbit. Cold storage, probably. That would fit the older bill. The hand-me-down lab reports all noted similar damage.

“A few days,” Will repeated. “A roommate would’ve noticed.”

“That’s what we’re hoping.” 

Beverly turned to rest her hip on the table. She faced Will, and reluctantly he turned to her in kind, mirroring the pose when it became clear she was waiting for that. Once she had his attention, she pressed on.

“Hoping,” she continued, “because all signs indicate that the Midnighter is back in Boston, and as we read--” She jerked her head, motioning to a filing cabinet in the corner. It was where they’d stuffed the collected paperwork months ago. “--he’s good at covering his tracks. I don’t think I need to remind you how unhelpful the previous interviews were.”

She didn’t. He’d read them all, and they were useless. The families and friends of previous victims hadn’t been able to provide any leads. Prior to disappearing, the victims habits hadn’t changed and they hadn’t, to anyone’s knowledge, met someone new. Their routines hadn’t been altered, and when they were last seen, nothing had seemed wrong. They were perfectly themselves, and expressing no concern. Whoever had come for them had done it carefully.

“And we’re sure it’s him?” Beverly nodded. “Tell me why.”

He wasn’t asking to be obstinate; he trusted the team. They’d had hours with the body, and the killer’s style was distinct. If they said it was him, he was inclined to believe it. He just wanted to have the scene set, and familiar with his methods, Beverly took no offense and complied. Turning back to the table, she balanced her hands on the ledge, gripping it as she spoke.

“Location was the first indicator. She was found in the alley behind Midtown Hotel, dumped pretty carelessly and left with all her valuables. There was reason to suspect robbery and no immediate signs of sexual assault, considering she was discovered fully clothed.”

That tracked. The other victims had been found in that area, and none of them had been robbed or raped.

“You checked for fluids to be safe,” he assumed.

Beverly hummed. “Not a drop, which I expected. Even before I got a closer look, something about her tipped me off.” The woman paused to tongue the seam of her lips. “Intuition, maybe.”

Will wasn’t a big believer in intuition. What agents tended to attribute to it could usually be explained by talent. And Beverly _was_ talented. Will had seen her in action enough to know it.

“What about after you got her here?”

“That’s when we knew for sure. When we got her clothes off and took a closer look at her injuries-- you should’ve heard those two.” Beverly snorted, and the sound broke the last of the tension between them. “They said _Midnighter_\-- I’m not kidding-- in unison. It was like a bad afternoon crime show.”

“In our defense,” Brian said, “it was obvious.”

“How?” Will asked. “Walk me through it.”

Another stupid question. He could examine the victim himself. He knew the Midnighter’s patterns. He’d taken a catalogue for himself already, but he was still, like before, chasing the scene. 

He liked to be there first thing, and usually he was. Will was almost certain he was Jack’s first call. They usually went to the scene together, or if meeting up would waste time, met at the perimeter and crossed as a unit. They made a good team, all considering. His and Jack’s moods weren’t always in sync. Then again, Will’s moods were rarely in sync with anyone. That his and Crawford’s didn’t constantly clash was good enough. 

It would’ve been better to be there that morning: smell the cold air mixing with street food and gasoline; hear the sounds of nearby bars emptying their patronage and scent the alcohol. It would’ve helped Will settle into the killer’s mind. There was so much external data that went into his analysis; so much about the landscape, weather, and location that affected decisions. But he’d been on vacation, and Crawford hadn’t been sure.

“You’ll note,” Jimmy began, bringing a gloved hand to the woman’s head, “the damage to her skull. It was a minor injury, but drew enough blood to mat her hair.” He dabbed the abrasion with one fingertip and lifted it for Will’s inspection. The latex was tacked with coagulated blood. “The blow was likely only meant to incapacitate her.”

Will hummed. “Knocked out, she’d have been easier to transport.”

And easier to set up for the main event. If Jimmy guessed that’s what he meant, though, he didn’t acknowledge it. He drew his hand back and began gesturing to her other injuries. Ligature marks; several of them. One around her neck, and matching sets on her biceps, wrists, thighs, and ankles.

“Presumably while she was out,” he continued, “she was relocated and strapped down. Judging by the spread of bruising around each mark, we can assume she woke up at some point.”

“And tried to slip free,” Beverly interrupted. “For all the good it did.”

Will’s eyes darted between each set of marks. The ones on her arms and wrists had the most bruising. Blood pooled, accompanied by scratches from the rope fibers. The poor girl must've fought hard. 

Good for her, he thought. It didn't matter that she was trapped, doomed from before she regained consciousness. What mattered was that she hadn't let the bastard off easy. Will hoped he'd forgotten to gag her, and that she'd screamed.

"And lest we forget," Jimmy said, recalling his attention. “The most telling wounds are on the inner thighs and elbows: puncture wounds, and note the large gauge.”

He had. They were wide; much wider the standard gauge for a blood draw. Not that he’d been under any delusion that was what they’d come from. The fact that her thighs had also been punctured negated it. This was something else. Something medical, but less routine. Not a draw, per se. It was more likely that--

“She was drained.”

Jimmy nodded. “And was most likely awake when entering hypovolemic shock. Heart failure is the main contender for cause of death, but we won’t know for certain until we cut her open.”

“Which we’re waiting to do until her parents ID her,” Beverly said.

That wouldn’t take long once they arrived.

“This afternoon, you said?” Will waited for a nod before continuing. “Well, in the meantime, let’s try not to get ahead of ourselves. If we have agents at the school, that’s a good enough start. Once we have the positive, we can regroup.”

“We’re right though, aren’t we?” It was Brian again. His arms were crossed loosely over his chest, gloved fingers curling on his biceps. “About it being the Midnighter. Her body’s a carbon copy of the others.”

It was, and they were. “It’s him.”

“Vacation’s really over, then. Sorry about that, Will.”

He huffed a small laugh, though it wasn’t funny, really. A girl was dead, and in a few hours, her family and friends would be devastated.

“Me too,” he muttered, eyes lingering on her a moment longer. He mapped the details of her injuries for private study. “Let me know when her status changes. I’ll be around. My office, probably.”

Without waiting for confirmation, he turned from the table and left the examination room.

Jack was waiting in Will’s office when he arrived, a fact he’d begun to suspect as he approached. Coming down the hall, he could see the door was cracked, and through it streamed the fluorescence of his lamp. There was warmer light, too; light from his window. He wondered how long Crawford had been staring out of it.

“Office hours are Wednesday from noon to three,” Will announced himself as he pushed through the door. “Anyone who can’t make it has to schedule a meeting.”

Jack chuckled, something Will saw more than heard. Crawford’s back was to the door, and it shook his shoulders. He was staring out the window like Will thought he would be, eyes tracking agents-in-training as they crossed the courtyard.

“I took the liberty of pencilling myself in.” Not turning from the window, Crawford gestured to Will’s desk. Two paper coffee cups were on it. “Sit. Have a drink. I bet you’re tired.”

“Not very.”

That wasn’t true. Will felt half dead and his headache wasn’t improving, but he wouldn’t tell Jack that. Jack only asked questions about his health to be assured it was fine. He didn’t really want to know if Will wasn’t feeling well. How he felt only mattered if it prevented him coming to work.

“Well,” the other man said, “I’m still sorry to drag you back, but I’m guessing you just came from the examination room?”

Will hummed and rounded the desk, taking the other seat. He angled it towards Jack before snatching one of the cups. He muttered a thanks then took a sip, winced-- still hot. Jack must’ve beaten him by minutes.

“Then I’m sure you understand.” He settled in his chair. It was an old foldout Will kept in the corner, and underneath his solid weight the back of it creaked. “What are you thinking?”

“Off hand?” He shrugged a little. “That the odds are stacked against us.”

“So you’re sure it’s him?”

“Aren’t you? Isn’t that why you called?”

Crawford’s mouth quirked. “Just making sure there wasn’t something I missed.” 

There wasn’t anything to miss. The Midnighter’s pattern was set, and the late Kamala Davies slotted into it perfectly. The blow to her head, ligature marks, and critical blood loss were cornerstones of the killer’s work. His victim’s bodies were neat, and so, Will guessed, were the crime scenes, though they hadn’t managed to find one. Identifying his work was simple because it was easy to follow. 

It was what he didn’t do that made catching him difficult.

“What are you thinking?” Jack asked again, taking his own cup. It looked so much smaller in his paws than Will’s. “I know you’ve got something. Walk me through it. We’ve got time.”

He was referring, probably, to the fact that the girl’s parents were stuck somewhere in airspace. Knowing he wouldn’t be left alone until he’d played along, Will gave in.

“I was hoping all this morning that there would be something about the girl that tied her to the other victims.”

Jack’s brow arched. “Is there?”

Will shook his head. “She’s an anomaly. They all are. Think about it: there’s absolutely nothing that connects them as a group.”

Crawford was silent for a moment, running over the files in his mind. “They’re all based in and around Boston. That’s something.”

“All that means is the Midnighter found fertile ground. Take location out of it and you’ve got nothing. The victims are different ages, races, and genders, and don’t have any work or social connections. They’re from different backgrounds, different neighborhoods, and have wildly different lifestyles. They may as well have been picked at random in a grocery store.”

“Maybe,” Jack allowed. He dug his thumb nail into the cup, leaving a half moon on the lip. “But even if they were, _something_ is drawing his eye. What is it, Will? What’s he seeing?”

Will took a deep pull from his coffee to buy time, to cover the fact that he still didn’t know. It had been months, and he’d had time to think it over meticulously. But he still hadn’t come up with anything. He could hypothesize about what the blood was being taken for, but he wouldn’t pretend that he could guess who the next victim would be. If there was a connection between them, it was something only they and the killer knew. Even their closest friends hadn’t been able to give insight.

“He’s seeing something I’m not still,” Will grumbled, hating to admit it. 

“So he’s good at the game,” the man sighed. “That shouldn’t surprise you. But we have something on our side that he doesn’t: urgency.” Crawford leaned forward to drawl the word. “A reason to wrap this up, and fast. We’ve got thirteen days if our man sticks to his pattern.”

“Ten,” Will corrected, and when Jack’s brow furrowed: “He ices them, remember? For a few days, Beverly guesses, so we’ve got closer to ten.”

It was too early to say if the killer would take another handful then disappear for several more months. The pattern wasn’t established, and Will hoped it wouldn’t have time to be. He hoped Kamala’s death would be the last.

Jack swirled his cup, weighing the contents.

“So it’s a good thing we’ve already started. Did Beverly tell you about the agents I sent to MIT?” Will nodded. “Let’s hope they noticed something the others didn’t. We need all the help we can get.”

Will was inclined to agree.

The afternoon dragged. Noon came and went, then two, then four. The girl’s parents were late, probably caught in a cycle of delays. Will tried not to think of Kamala’s body being prodded and hawked over. He tried instead to think of the papers on his desk.

There were a smattering of assignments he’d left for his temp to give. He didn’t assign out-of-class work where he could avoid it, but being gone, he thought it necessary. He liked his co-workers enough, but he’d sat in on their lectures. To say he wasn’t impressed with some of them would’ve been an understatement.

It should’ve annoyed him that there was busywork, but it didn’t. His class was small, and there weren’t more than twenty. Flipping through them and making notes would give him something to do, at least. Something that didn’t involve venturing out of his office.

He could’ve gone to the dining area or one of the lounges for air. There would’ve been coffee and plenty of distractions at both. But reentering the public sphere of the academy felt like an even deeper violation of his vacation. It was one thing to see Crawford, and another entirely to run into students. He didn’t want to make small talk, explain why he was back, or field questions about something his temp had said. He wanted to sit in the privacy of his office, where he could pretend he was still in Wolf Trap.

Except, no. He couldn’t. His office was nothing like home. It was quiet, cold, and white as a hospital. His walls in Wolf Trap were discolored and scuffed, and even in the deepest night, there was always something moving in or around it. It was alive, organic, and the opposite of the academy. The difference was distracting, especially since thoughts of the Midnighter kept cropping up. He’d told Beverly they shouldn’t get ahead of themselves, and he’d meant that. Alone in his office, though, the temptation was difficult to resist. 

If he closed his eyes and slowed his breath, he could slip out of the office and into the dump alley. He could smell the burning winter air, taste gas and booze and ozone, and just underneath it, if he was patient, he could smell her. She was cold, but not frozen, and already limbering up. The night wasn’t as cold as where she’d been stored. Her skin, hair, and last traces of blood would be coming through faintly. How long would it take for her to stink? Would it be long enough?

Will shook himself, dragging out of the thought before he could fall. There wasn’t any point in getting too deep just yet. He needed to be present, and grading wasn’t a good enough anchor. He needed a more engaging distraction.

His phone was in his hand before he registered taking it out, papers pushed to the other side of the desk. He kept his pen, tapping the point as he debated whether or not to give Dr Lecter a call. The man said he could, and Will guessed this counted as therapy. He usually stopped by Hannibal’s house after work to talk cases. True, he wasn’t supposed to be on a case this week, but maybe that made it even more appropriate to call. What would Alana say? Something about stress and self destruction. Dr Lecter might agree, and they could talk about that. Anything would be better than losing time while grading.

He opened his contacts and tapped Hannibal’s name, waiting out the ring. It only took a few seconds to connect, and he answered, Hannibal’s voice rolled like honey through the line. It was grainy and cool, and his prominent accent harder to parse. Will hadn’t realized how much he’d come to rely on reading the man’s face.

“Dr Lecter speaking. If this is an emergency, I advise you to contact emergency services instead.”

“Not an emergency,” Will assured, “but I can hang up if you want.”

There was a stiff pause, as if the man were recalibrating. When he next spoke, it was a little more kindly. 

“Hello, Will. I wondered if you would call.”

“I wasn’t planning on it,” he admitted. “I know you’re busy with the conference.”

“Not always, and in fact, I’m not busy now.” Through the line came the soft sounds of settling. Will imagined that they were both in Hannibal’s office, taking their respective chairs. He settled back in his seat, chasing the coziness of routine. “I have time to talk, if you’d like. Tell me how you’re doing.”

“Fine.” Will’s brow pinched and he corrected. “Or I was, until Jack called about three this morning.”

“Unusual time for a social call.”

Will laughed. “It wasn’t social. There’s been a development in the Midtown Vampire case.”

_Midtown Vampire_ was what Will and Hannibal had dubbed the killer. They’d come up with it while discussing the original files. It wasn’t on any of the records and he never said it to anyone else, a choice largely due to the connotations of the name. “Vampire” implied that the use of the blood had been identified, and it hadn’t been. The FBI was still hypothesizing. But he and Hannibal had been at dinner, and the color of the wine sparked a conversation. It was possible, and Midnighter sounded hokey, anyway.

“What sort of development?”

“A new victim. A young woman. MIT student.”

Hannibal clucked his tongue. “Poor girl. But--” he paused, and Will braced himself. “--I don’t see why Jack Crawford would call you about this. You’re on vacation.”

“Was on vacation. I came back early on request.”

“Ah,” Hannibal said, and nothing else. 

Will’s brow lifted. “What? No lecture?”

A low hum rumbled through the phone. The man was sighing, but not in frustration. Hannibal Lecter, as far as Will had seen, was hardly ever frustrated. He radiated composure, and the only sign that he felt anything was in his eyes. Sometimes they gave him away before he could steel himself. Not often though. He was good at appearing neutral.

“I can’t imagine it would do any good,” Hannibal said. “You aren’t a child, and you’ve already made your choice. In any case, I imagine Dr Bloom would like the honor.”

Will groaned. “Don’t say that. I’ve managed to avoid her so far.”

“And I wish you continued luck, though I doubt you’ll have it. If the case is on again, you’ll both be working.”

That was true. Still, Will could hope. “Can we talk about something less stressful?”

“Like serial killing?”

Will was acutely aware of how ridiculous it was that murder was lower on his stressor list than confrontation with Alana. He was also aware that Hannibal had set it up to highlight the fact, but he refused to bite the hook.

“Yea, if you’ve got time.”

“I said that I did. And as our meetings are most often face-to-face, I could switch to video if that would make you more comfortable.”

Will considered it. It might. He’d never liked phone calls, and it was strange hearing Hannibal’s voice through wire. But he also wasn’t sure he’d like seeing the other’s disembodied head peering out from a few inches of screen.

“The call’s fine. Thanks, though.”

He could almost hear Dr Lecter shrug. “So, tell me: what about the new victim makes you call me? Or is one of those previous on your mind?”

It was all of them. His mind had been hopping between the cases like a waterbug, disturbing the surface of a still, cold lake. He kept coming back to Kamala because she was fresh, but there was nothing about her that really stood out. She was a new, unfortunate notch in the Midtown Vampire’s bedpost. Metaphorically, of course. He hadn’t sexually assaulted her. He’d strapped her down and hooked her up, then milked her until she was empty. 

“I’m thinking about what he might get out of draining them so particularly. It’d be easier to hang them up and cut their throats.”

“It would,” Hannibal agreed. “But I imagine that such a method would strip the act of intimacy.”

“You think it’s intimate?”

“Don’t you? Like this, he’s able to look into their eyes as they offer up what's most vital to them.”

“They aren’t offering,” Will said. “It’s being taken from them.”

“Perhaps our killer doesn’t think so.”

Will tapped his pen on the desk. That would track. There was often a disconnect between fantasy and reality. It was likely the killer only saw what he wanted to, and if he saw these people as gift-bearers, it would explain his relatively gentle treatment.

“There’s a pattern,” Will muttered, redirecting the conversation. “I know it. But--”

“But you haven’t found it yet.”

The interruption was careful, but Will still bristled. 

“No,” he said irritably. “And I don’t have much time. We’ve got ten days at best before the next person goes missing, and I’m no closer to figuring this out than before.”

Dr Lecter went silent and Will mirrored him. He propped his elbows on the desk and listened to the man breathe, fussing with the lip of his cup and thinking of nothing. He almost wished that he’d let Hannibal switch to video. Seeing the man’s level expression might’ve given him clarity. It often did. There was something about him that settled Will’s nerves. Perhaps it was the persona he adopted in the chair, or maybe it was just that he _looked_ like a doctor: older, graying, serene faced and nimble.

“In similar situations,” Hannibal said finally, “I’ve found it beneficial to retrace my steps. Clues are often overlooked in the first, hasty sweep. I suggest doubling back before moving forward.”

Will grimaced. He didn’t have time to double back. Then again, he also didn’t have new leads. It might be worth it to compare everyone’s notes. Maybe Hannibal was right. Maybe they had missed something at the jump.

“But, not tonight,” Dr Lecter continued. “I imagine you’ve had a long day. Perhaps in the morning, when you’re rested.”

“Yea,” Will muttered. “Sure. Alright.”

Hannibal blew out a short huff of a laugh. “Don’t sound so troubled. It’s my professional opinion.”

“I know.” Will gnawed his cheek. “I should let you go. You probably need to get back to work.”

It was just after three in Seattle. The conference had probably broken for everyone to eat and freshen up. There were a lot of hours left in the day, though, and they had to be getting back to it soon.

“I'm meant to participate in a panel in fifteen minutes,” the other man confirmed. “If you need more time, however--”

“No. Really, I’m fine. Thank you.”

“My pleasure.” He almost sounded like he meant it. “Don’t hesitate to call again, and remember that I’ll be flying back Friday. Barring some catastrophe, we can meet as early as that day should you need it.”

“Also barring catastrophe, I don’t think I’ll need to. But I’ll keep it in mind. Good afternoon, Dr Lecter.”

“Good night, Will. Do try to sleep through this one.”

The line went dead before Will could fire back, but that was just as well. He didn’t have anything clever to say. Hannibal always beat him to the punch. 

Dropping the phone to his desk, he tapped the face to check the time and saw a text waiting from Jack. It had come through ten minutes ago, and apparently he hadn’t noticed the buzz while talking to Hannibal. Choosing not to consider the implications of how thoroughly distracting the other man was, Will opened the text and read quickly.

_Positive ID. Investigation moving forward. Get some sleep; my office, 8 tomorrow._

The text was curt, but Will’s shoulders relaxed while reading it, tension slacking at the promise of a few hours of peace. He could go home, take some aspirin, lose time in the shower, and maybe, if he was lucky, go to sleep. The last obstacle was his commute, but even that wasn’t awful. Leaving Quantico was easier than entering it.

Pocketing his phone, Will pushed out of his chair and reorganized his desk. He grouped the papers, trashed his coffee cup, and clicked his pen closed, then decided that was good enough for now. He could fix it up later or have the temp deal with it; either way, it wasn’t important. The revitalized case was his priority, and more immediately, crawling back into bed. 

Dr Lecter was right. It had been a long day. If he wanted tomorrow to be better, he'd need to be rested for it.

**Author's Note:**

> Just a little intro to get everything set up! Next time, we'll be diving into the meat.


End file.
